


The New Canterbury Tales

by Teresa_C



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Canon Disabled Character, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2006-10-01
Updated: 2011-02-24
Packaged: 2017-10-15 22:34:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teresa_C/pseuds/Teresa_C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stuck in a diner during a snowstorm, the guys tell stories.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue and The Warrior's Tale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimers: The rights to Highlander: The Series are owned by someone else.

_Prologue_

"Hey, MacLeod, what do you know about this?" Methos held up the issue of "The Magazine Antiques" he had picked up from the Highlander's coffee table.

"About what?" MacLeod called from the kitchen area of the loft.

"'The Sword of Ibn Fahdlan,'" Methos read.

"Oh that." MacLeod joined Methos in the living room area, and tossed him a beer. "I know it's a fake."

"How do you know that?" Methos sounded surprised.

MacLeod sat. "It might be an authentic piece, but calling it Ibn Fahdlan's sword is just promotional hype. Like when they find a submerged ruin and the papers all call it Atlantis."

Methos twisted open the beer and flipped the cap onto the table. "So they don't have any proof," he said.

MacLeod shrugged. "They may have some provenance, but I doubt it. Why?"

"No reason," Methos said, as he continued to read the article.

MacLeod took a long drink, eyeing the other immortal. "Ibn Fahdlan was a tenth century Arab," he commented. "His sword would have been curved and single-edged." He tipped his beer bottle toward the cover photo of a broad, straight, short sword. "Not like that."

Methos nodded, still reading.

"What's more, look at the size of the guard relative to the blade. Unless it's made out of balsa wood that grip is too heavy for the sword. It would never balance properly."

Methos nodded again. "How far away is this New Canterbury? I see it's in British Columbia."

MacLeod shook his head, smiling. "A day's drive in the summertime, when they hold their famous auction. Why? You want to buy it?"

"Of course not." Methos gave him an amused look. "I think I want to see it, though, before they sell it to someone. I'll rent a car and go have a look."

"You don't drive there in the winter," MacLeod said. "It's on the other side of the Rockies."

"It's April, not winter."

"It's winter there."

"So? You don't think a little winter weather is going to bother me, do you?"

MacLeod frowned. "Wait 'til Friday, and I'll go with you."

It took three people to accompany Methos to New Canterbury: MacLeod, who claimed to have old business contacts there he wanted to renew; Joe, who, upon learning from Methos of MacLeod's intentions, claimed to have a sudden interest in visiting points northern; and Richie, who declared with delight, "Road trip!"

Methos' choice of rental vehicle failed to meet with MacLeod's approval, so the Highlander upgraded Methos' contract to a larger SUV. He also insisted (with a cash offer) that a row of seats be removed, for greater comfort, paid the extra insurance, and took charge of the keys. Methos muttered something about "control freaks," but allowed MacLeod to drive, while he rode shotgun.

By midmorning they had crossed the U.S./Canada border, and had begun to climb into the mountains. What had been gray, dreary clouds at dawn became light fog and snow flurries. The highway remained clear, however, if wet, and traffic was brisk.

"So, Methos," Duncan asked, "What's your interest in Ibn Fahdlan's sword?"

"Just curious."

MacLeod rolled his eyes. No one had managed to get anything out of Methos on the subject.

"So, who was this Fahdlan guy, anyway?" Joe asked from the back seat.

Richie looked up, even pulling the Discman earphone from his ear.

"Ibn Fahdlan," MacLeod said. "He was an Arab in the tenth century who traveled with some Vikings. Part of his journal survives. All I recall is that he didn't care for them much. Methos? Care to tell us more?"

Methos smiled. "I think a story is a good idea, Mac. Why don't you tell us one?"

"I don't know Ibn Fahdlan's story."

"Tell us a different one."

"Then will you tell yours?"

"I want to hear everyone else's stories first," said Methos. "That's the deal."

"All right; I'll go first," MacLeod said. He thought for a moment and then began.

 _The Warrior's Tale_

"Once a long time ago, two sets of cousins were struggling for the throne of Hastinapura."

"Where was this?" Richie asked.

"In India. Their conflicts escalated to all out war and most of the greatest men of the age allied themselves with one side or the other. The battle of their armies was going to be like an apocalypse. Nothing would be the same afterward and everything hung in the balance. If Duryodhana and his brothers, the Kauravas, won, the world would be in darkness, but if Yuddhishthira and his brothers, the Pandavas, won, the world would have an age of harmony and justice. The proper succession was unclear, and many of the world's most powerful kings had friends or family on both sides. Now Yuddhishthira and each of his brothers had been fathered by gods. Yuddhishthira's father was Dharma, the god of . . . of . . . rightness. Of everything being in its proper place. That's why Yuddhishthira himself embodied justice and stability. His middle brother - there were five Pandavas - was named Arjuna and he was the son of the god Indra. This made Arjuna the most powerful and skillful warrior the world had ever seen.

"Sounds like a good guy to have on your side," Joe said.

"He was, but he wasn't the only powerful or skillful warrior around. Both the Pandavas and the Kauravas had had the same teachers, and those teachers took sides, too."

"There were five Pandavas?" Richie asked. "How many of the other guys?"

"The Kauravas? Ninety-nine."

"Ninety-nine? Ninety-nine brothers?"

"And one sister. But that's all another story. Arjuna was also very pious. That was considered essential in a good warrior, and since Arjuna was the best, he was also very spiritual. In fact, he was good friends with a god. Krisna."

Richie snorted. "Okay, how do you get to be 'good friends' with a god?"

"Well, Krisna was in human form at the time."

"You mean like Jesus?"

MacLeod frowned. "Kind of, but this god had the form of a king, with armies and courtiers. He should have been on Arjuna's side in the war, but like so many other kings at the time, he had loyalties and ties to both sides. Both his friend Arjuna and Arjuna's cousin Duryodhana appealed to Krisna to fight for their side. Krisna's solution was to offer them each one aspect of himself. One of them could have all his armies and the other could have himself, alone, unarmed, and taking no part in combat. Arjuna got to pick first. Which do you think he chose? Methos, you don't get to answer. I know you know this story."

Methos nodded.

Richie answered. "The smart thing would have been to take the armies, but I suppose you're going to say he did the 'spiritual' thing and took the unarmed guy."

"Right. Duryodhana was ecstatic to get Krisna's armies to fight on his side, but Arjuna didn't hesitate to choose Krisna. He asked Krisna to drive his chariot. That was considered a non-combat position."

"God is my Charioteer," said Methos. "That should be a bumper sticker."

"I wonder what Arjuna's brother thought of his choice," said Joe.

"Well, Yuddhishthira trusted Arjuna to handle those things. Each brother had his own skill. That's part of what dharma means, too. Everyone has their job."

Joe said, "Sounds like the caste system."

MacLeod nodded. "Yeah. Anyway, the day of the great battle came. Both armies lined up on a holy field facing each other. Those who couldn't fight were nearby, watching. This was the battle that would determine everything.

Despite the rancor between the two sets of cousins, no one disputed Arjuna's position as the world's premiere warrior."

"No one?" asked Methos, innocently.

"Okay, no one except Karna, but that's another story, too." MacLeod took his gaze from the road long enough to give Methos a Look.

"Sorry. Go on."

"So, it fell to Arjuna to be the one to sound the horn to start the battle. Both sides respected him. Krisna steered Arjuna's chariot onto the field between the armies. Arjuna looked at the men on both sides. He saw his brothers, he saw his cousins. He saw uncles, brothers-in-law, and teachers. He saw many, many friends, on both sides, and suddenly, he didn't want them to fight. He didn't want to see his loved ones slaughtered."

MacLeod paused.

Richie fidgeted. "What did he do?" he finally asked.

"What do you think he should've done?"

"Me?"

"Yeah, Rich. What should Arjuna do?"

Richie thought for only a moment. "Well, it doesn't matter anyway, right? Nothing he says is going to stop the war or anything. They're still going to fight. And they'll all call him a chicken and then he won't be able to even scare anyone even if he is really good. So what's the point? He should just blow the horn and do his job. Let the chips fall where they may."

"Out of the mouths of babes," said Methos, grinning.

"Okay, Mr. Ancient WiseGuy," Richie said, "what do you think he should do? Not what he did, what do you think he should do?"

"Me? He should have Krisna turn his chariot around, ride far away from the battle, and go live in a cave somewhere."

"Oh, right," said Richie.

"He can't do that," said MacLeod. "He's not a Brahmin; he's a Ksatriya."

"Of course," Methos said with mock earnestness. "Then he should go found a martial arts school and teach the next generation of warriors."

"And be completely shunned by all his family for shirking his duty?" MacLeod asked.

"Well most of his family will be dead at the end of the day, right? Or the end of the next, - what was it - eleven days? Someone will be on the throne, and Arjuna'll still be alive and able to train others."

"An Age of Darkness will fall if the Kauravas win. How well will his school do under his enemy's rule?"

"Ages of Darkness come and go, MacLeod. He'll still be alive. That's my answer. What do you say, Joe?"

Joe cleared his throat. "It's an age old problem, if you'll pardon the expression. If everyone chose other options besides war, the world would be at peace. But other people don't choose other options, so what should one man do? I want to hear how it really turned out. But, for me . . . I'm thinking he should ask the god that's right there in his chariot for advice."

"Aw, you do know this story, Joe," said MacLeod.

"No, Mac, I swear. It just seems kind of obvious, you know? What did Krisna tell him?"

"He told him a lot. Arjuna threw down his weapons in despair and asked Krisna, how can I do this? Start a battle that will kill those I love? Krisna said . . . Krisna told him a lot about how the world is, and about how people should behave, and about . . ."

"Hey, wait a minute, Mac," said Richie. "This is all happening right in front of the armies? With everyone waiting?"

MacLeod nodded. "It's a little strange, you're right. There must have been some kind of time freeze or something. Or their entire conversation took place outside of time. It was a very important conversation. God telling Man how things are. At the end, Arjuna, who had been really trying to understand, asked Krisna to reveal himself to Arjuna, in full god-like glory, so Arjuna could see true reality and understand this revelation."

"Mmm," said Joe. "In the Bible that sort of thing doesn't usually turn out so well."

MacLeod smiled. "I guess Krisna decided Arjuna could take it. He was half-god, after all. So Krisna took off the cloak of common humanity he had been wearing and overwhelmed Arjuna's consciousness with the sight of his true form."

"He passed out?" asked Richie.

"I don't know, exactly. But when it was over, and Krisna had gone back to being an ordinary charioteer, Arjuna understood."

"What did he understand?"

"That if your position is to be a warrior, the stability of the universe depends on you being one. If your job is to fight, then there is no blame to you for fighting and killing - no sin. If you do your job with purity, the outcome is not your responsibility. But if you fail to do it, the order of reality is threatened, and that's bigger than anyone's life or family."

"So Arjuna blew the horn?"

"Yes he did. And that battle began."

"Who won?"

"The good guys. But it's a really long story. It's called the Mahabharata, and the part I just told you is called the Bhagavad Gita."


	2. The Watcher's Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joe tells a different kind of tale as the weather worsens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me apologize for my vague geography, but both Seacouver and New Canterbury are fictional cities, so rather than place them anywhere real, I thought I'd leave the route between them unspecific.
> 
> Disclaimers: The rights to Highlander: The Series are owned by someone else.

MacLeod turned off of the main highway, onto a smaller country road. The weather had grown worse, and traffic was very thin. The snow clouds hung lower and lower over the road, until the snow was coming from curtains of fog. MacLeod slowed as the SUV hit occasional patches of ice.

"Look!" said Richie, "is that a car?"

Through the mist patches of red came into view. A car lay tilted nose down in the ditch beside the road. MacLeod slowed further and stopped on what could be seen of a shoulder. "Is there anyone in it?" he asked.

Richie and Methos, both on the right side of the car, peered out. "I can't tell," said Richie. Methos shook his head.

Leaving the car engine running, MacLeod opened his door to the tune of the dinging key alarm and got out. Richie also got out. The two men met beside Richie's door and began a sliding progress down the slope of snow-coated mud and grass. The car before them had red trim in an unusual configuration. Something pointy and painted on the side they approached looked like red ears on a large white beast. As they got closer, they saw it was an older, vintage car, with red-painted tail fins. MacLeod clambered through knee deep weeds with a layer of snow on them to the driver's door. He knocked on the window and peered in.

"Anyone?" Richie asked, coming up behind him.

MacLeod tried the door but found it locked. "Try the other door," he said, raising his voice above the blustering wind. The snow was falling so thickly, at times they could barely see the shape of the SUV on the road behind them.

Richie worked around the car and tried the other door, but with no luck. The car, though a station wagon, had only two doors. "Looks like they're gone," Richie called.

As the two of them climbed back to the road, Richie asked, "What kind of car is that?"

"It's a Chevy Nomad," MacLeod answered. "'57 or '58 and in pretty good condition, too. Someone's had a bad morning. That's a real collectible car, now." They clumped back into the SUV, bringing snow and wet with them.

"No one in it?" Joe asked.

"No," MacLeod said, "but that car hasn't been in the ditch very long. There's snow underneath it." He put the car in gear and eased out onto the road.

"It's weird," Richie said. "Who would build a station wagon with only two doors? And that was a crazy detail job."

"We should stop somewhere, MacLeod, and see if this blows over," Methos said.

MacLeod nodded. "I had hoped to get farther by lunch, but we'll take the next town we come to."

Methos consulted a road map and made a noncommittal sound. "It'll have to be something too small to be on the map. I don't see much."

"So who's got the next story?" MacLeod asked, hearty.

"I think you should concentrate on driving, Mac," said Joe.

"I'm fine. Someone should entertain me. Richie? You ready to tell a story?"

"No way. I don't know any stories."

"Sure you do," said MacLeod. "Movies, TV, maybe even books. You can think of something."

"You've got to be kidding. I'm not going to know some story you guys don't already know. I mean, sure, I love Star Wars, but who hasn't seen that? And what's the point in telling it?"

"You can tell us a story we all know," Methos said. "That's how good stories last. Pick something you really like."

"No," Richie said. "I'm not playing. It's dumb."

"You can tell us a true story," Joe said. "Something that happened to you or to someone you know."

"You go, then," Richie said, his jaw set.

"Uh, okay," Joe said. "I think I've got one."

 _The Watcher's Tale_

"Once upon a time, there was a guy named Dan. He graduated from High School in the Midwest in the middle of the Great Depression. Farm country was particularly hard hit. They used to say the farmers knew there was a depression ten years before everyone else knew. Dan was the oldest child of a big family, and he didn't have many prospects. He had always helped take care of his younger brothers and sisters, but now he was expected to make his own way in the world. He was a cheerful boy, so he tried not to worry too much. His uncle owned a traveling carnival, so Dan worked for him that summer.

"His uncle had this 'pony ride,' where ponies in a round pen walked around and around in a circle, giving rides to little kids. Now ponies may be small, but they can be nasty-tempered. Dan was good with them, and with kids, so his uncle gave him the job of lifting the little boys and girls on and off the ponies.

"But the carnival only operated in the summer, and when Fall came and the temperatures dropped, Dan couldn't help his parents keep food on the table anymore. Jobs were not only scarce, they were non-existent. Many good men just drifted from town to town, looking for work. They usually didn't find it."

Both Methos and MacLeod nodded. Richie fiddled with his Discman.

"Dan didn't want to go on the road; he loved his big family and had a lot of friends where he grew up. But it was beginning to look like he didn't have a choice.

"Then, one day, one of his friends stopped him in the street. 'Dan,' he said, 'get down to the John Deere factory. I just heard they're hiring.'

"Well, Dan was a little skeptical. Everyone knew that factory, and everyone knew they hadn't hired anyone new in years. This was the kind of news that would be all over town. All over the region, really. But his friend was positive, and swore the news was just so fresh, other men hadn't heard yet. Dan asked how many men they were hiring. 'Just one,' the guy said.

"So Dan hurried himself down to the factory, hoping not too many people had heard about this, yet. When he got there they crowded him into a big room full of at least a hundred other men all applying for that same job. Dan's heart sank, but he decided to stay and see what happened. He didn't have anywhere else to go.

"After a while, in came the foreman. He climbed up on this raised platform and just looked over the crowd. Everyone got real quiet. Then, the guy looked right at Dan, in the very back of the room. 'You there,' he said. 'With the yellow hair. Come up here.'

"Dan looked around. There weren't any other blonds anywhere near him. The foreman really did mean him. So, his heart pounding, he forced his way forward, through a bunch of glaring men. 'Follow me,' the man said, and he left the room. Dan followed, of course, in total shock. The foreman took him to a small office and asked him his name, where he lived, and what his prior work experience was. He gave Dan a paper to sign and told him to show up to work the next day at 7:00. So Dan sat there, trying not to let his mouth hang open, while the guy went back into the large room and told everyone the position was filled.

"You should have seen him trying to tell his friends and parents what had happened. He could hardly believe it himself. But he showed up at 7:00 and the foreman put him to work. At the end of the week he got an honest-to-Pete paycheck. And the next week he got another one."

"So why did the guy hire him?" Richie asked.

"I'm glad you asked that, Rich." Joe grinned. "It was a long time before Dan worked up the courage to ask. But the foreman seemed to be expecting it. He smiled when Dan asked. 'You worked at a carnival last summer,' he said. 'At the pony ride, right?'"

"'That's right,' said Dan, still baffled.

"'I remembered you,' the foreman said. 'My little girl wanted a pony ride. But when she got on, she was terrified. You held her on the pony and walked around and around with her, talking to her, until she started to like it. By the end of the ride, she was laughing. I thought to myself, I wish there was something I could do for that boy.'

"Dan worked for John Deere for forty years. He always said that he had comforted many frightened children that summer, but he didn't even remember the one that changed his life."

There was silence in the car.

"That's a great story, Joe," said MacLeod, finally. "Is it true?"

"Dan was my mother's cousin."


	3. The Student's Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie thinks of a story he can tell, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimers: The characters of Highlander: the Series belong to Davis/Panzer Productions. The Cookie Tree is by Jay Williams.  
> 

The SUV made slow progress through what had become a cascading blizzard. The swish-swish of the windshield wipers seemed loud as everyone in the car grew silent. A highway sign came into view, indicating a town could be reached by taking the next turn, but the details were obscured.

"Anyone catch the name of that town?" Methos asked, scowling at his map.

Joe and Richie murmured negatives. A blast of wind rocked the car like a boat on the sea.

"Whatever it is, we're going there," MacLeod said, watching carefully in order to not miss seeing the turn. Even at a crawl, the car slid as he made the turn. MacLeod corrected carefully and proceeded on.

"I know," Richie said, after a few minutes. "I could tell the story of the Snow Queen. What do you think?"

"I think you should think of something else, Rich," Joe said dryly. The two in the front seats did not respond at all.

Before long the blowing whiteness before them grew uneven and blotchy, and signs and buildings and a few parked cars resolved alongside their road. "There," Methos said. On the edge of their vision a warm light glowed in one building. The lit sign was difficult to read, but the word "diner" was clear. MacLeod turned toward it, and parked in front. A red "Open" sign hung inside the glass door.

The four men piled out, into the wind. Richie raced to the door, where he stopped, abashed, when he saw MacLeod waiting politely for Joe. Joe's footing was uneasy in the wind and he made more careful progress than usual. MacLeod, his hands in his pockets, stood upwind from Joe, looking around as if it were a warm Spring day and he could actually see anything. Methos, too, from the other side of the car, approached slowly, for no apparent reason, arriving at the door slightly behind Joe.

Richie opened the door for Joe. "Thanks, Rich," Joe said, and they all blew inside.

The place was a small diner with a counter and a half dozen tables and booths. Behind the counter, rag in hand, stood a large, hulking man in an apron. His smile was missing a front tooth. "Hello, gents!" he said. "Lovely weather we're having."

Only one of the tables had place settings, so the group settled in there, murmuring greetings to their host, who brought them all menus. The moaning wind rattled their windows.

After they'd ordered, Richie announced, "Okay, I've decided. I've got a story for you guys."

"Not the Snow Queen," Joe said.

"Nope. A better story. And I'll bet none of you guys know it."

"Let's hear it, then," Methos said.

 _The Student's Tale_

"Once upon a time there was a village somewhere. Up on a hill, above this village, there was a castle where a wizard lived. He was a very powerful wizard, they knew, because you could see, you know, lightning and stuff coming from the castle. But no one knew the wizard or had ever met him.

"One morning everyone got up and started to go to work, and there in the middle of the town square was this huge tree. It was gigantic, and it hadn't been there before. While everyone was staring at it, someone noticed it had cookies on it. Chocolate chip cookies. They were growing on the tree. The kids were all for picking them, but their parents held them back. It had to be a magic tree, and who knows what it would do to you.

Richie looked around the table. "So, anyone know this one?" Everyone shook his head.

"Go on, Rich," said MacLeod.

"Cool. So the town council meets to talk about what to do about this tree. One guy says 'We can't touch this tree. It must have come from the wizard, and we don't know what he wants.' Another guy says, 'It could be a trap of some kind, with the delicious cookies as the lure.' And another guy says, 'We have to put a fence around it to protect people. It might be especially dangerous to the children.'

"So that's what they did. They built a fence around the tree and warned everyone to stay away from it. But every day the tree had more cookies. Different kinds, too. Luscious lemon cookies, and chocolate, and peanut butter, and those sugar cookies with the big chocolate kiss in the middle." Richie grinned. "My favorite."

The host lumbered over and placed their plates in front of them. He gave them their drinks and sat down with his own drink at the table next to them, unabashedly eavesdropping.

"How do you like the story?" Richie asked him with snark in his tone.

"It's good," the man said with his gap-toothed smile. "What happens next?"

"What do you think?" Richie asked.

"Hmmm. I think some woman picks a cookie and eats it and then offers one to her husband. He eats it and the wizard comes down and kicks everyone out of the village."

MacLeod smiled back at the man. "Seems I've heard that story before."

"Well that's not it. Anyone else want to guess?" Richie looked pointedly at Methos.

Methos finished his cheese sandwich and licked his fingers. "How about, some bad kids steal the cookies and get punished, but some good kids resist temptation and obey their parents and get rewarded?"

"Nope," Richie said triumphantly. "Anyone else?"

Joe and MacLeod shook their heads.

"Well, one night the kids in the town get together and sneak over the fence. They eat every cookie on the tree and boy were they delicious! The villagers get up the next day and find all the cookies gone. They were in a panic, and some mother found cookie crumbs on her little boy's face. Almost all the kids had stomach-aches, too. The grown-ups got together all worried about what the wizard would do now, and what the cookies were going to do to the kids. They decided the best thing they could do was to apologize and beg for the wizard's forgiveness. So the town council sends a messenger up the hill with a letter apologizing for the kids eating the cookies. The messenger shoves the letter under the door and runs back down the hill.

"That night everyone waits, all nervous. The kids all get over the stomach-aches. And the next morning, there in the town center the tree is full of cookies again. As the sun comes up everyone sees there's a letter in an envelope by the tree. The town council guys unlock the gate and go slowly up to the tree with everyone standing around. One guy opens the letter and reads. 'Dear Villagers,' it says. 'I'm glad you enjoyed the cookies. Please accept this tree as my gift and enjoy its fruit for many generations. Sincerely, the Wizard.'

"The kids all let out a cheer, and before anyone could stop them, they poured through the gate and climbed all over the tree. That night they all had stomach-aches again. But the village enjoyed the magic cookie tree for generations. And they all lived happily ever after."

Richie looked around the table. "What do you think?"

"I liked it," Joe said. "It's a good story."

"What's the moral?" asked the host.

"You need to keep a better eye on the kids," Methos quipped.

"Yeah, not every wizard is going to turn out so friendly," said MacLeod.

"No, you guys," Richie cried. "The moral is, the world isn't always a dangerous place. You have to trust people sometimes."

Joe nodded. "And just enjoy the good things that are in front of you."

"It was a story one of my foster-mothers read to me, called The Cookie Tree. I figured you guys don't read many bedtime stories. I had to make some of it up, because I didn't really remember all the details." Richie blushed.

"Storyteller's license," Methos said. "Nothing wrong with that."

"Well, I did it," Richie said to Methos. "Now it's your turn."

"Speaking of enjoying good things," Methos said, addressing the host, "Innkeeper! Please tell me you have beer."

"I do," said the man, getting to his feet.

"Good. My tale is a long one. But, since the storm shows no sign of quitting, lets have drinks all around and get started."


	4. Scholar's Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The guys finally get to hear Methos's story of Ibn Fahdlan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimers: Nothing about Highlander: The Series is mine. It all belongs to Davis/Panzer Productions, so far as I know. This story also owes much to The Thirteenth Warrior, the Risala and to Beowulf, none of which are mine, either.This chapter is still a WIP.

_The Scholar's Tale (part 1)_   


"The Vikings, or Rus, as Ahmed Ibn Fahdlan called them, traveled thousands of miles on inland riverways. They were well known in the area of the Black Sea, for instance. Of course, even that was a little too far north for Ibn Fahdlan. But he had had the bad judgment to be caught in bed with the wrong woman. The woman's husband wanted him executed, but the Caliph, who had had some reason to be grateful to Ibn Fahdlan for his service as a scholar, instead made him ambassador to Bulgharia."

"Bulgaria?" Joe asked.

"Not that one. Bulgharia. Much further north, deep in the wild forests of Rus-land. He might as well have been banished to the end of the earth. He certainly felt he had."

"Do you mean Russia?" Richie asked. "What was so bad about that?"

"It was uncivilized. No music or literature. Think of it like this. If you lived somewhere warm and comfy where the women all went around in belly-dancing costumes, would you want to trade it for a cold place where the women are buried in furs, and mostly you only get to see the men anyway because there's so much fighting to be done?"

"Oh," said Richie wisely. "You mean like Scotland."

Joe snorted. MacLeod gave Richie a glare. Richie grinned.

"Yeah," said Methos. "Only more trees and not so much golf."

"Go on," MacLeod said.

Methos smiled. "He didn't meet the Rus right away. He traveled with a caravan headed … I don't remember where, right now. They were attacked somewhere in the steppes by bandits. They were on a wide open plain with no cover and no way to outrun the bandits. The bandits were Tartars, which was really bad. They never left anyone alive. The caravan leader bolted in the direction of the only river, and Ibn Fahdlan followed, sure that his short career as an ambassador was about to meet a bloody end."

Methos shook his head. "He really should have kept it in his pants.

"They reached the river and were about to force their terrified mounts into the deep current, when around the bend of the river came a Rus's longship. Beautiful high prow, carved like a serpent. Broad, flat base for shallow beaches. Made of strong oak, with round shields hanging on the sides. The Tartars saw the ship - and, to Ahmed's surprise, turned and fled.

"The Rus hove to and disembarked on a broad strand. They showed no interest in the vanishing Tartars, nor in Ibn Fahdlan's caravan as they set up a camp. Ahmed found himself fascinated by them. What tremendous warriors they must be to strike such fear into the Tartars!

"His caravan leader was reluctant to stop nearby for the night. He wanted to put distance between himself and the bandits. He also didn't trust the Rus.

"'Are they dangerous?' Ahmed asked.

"'Hard to say. Sometimes. Sometimes not. Best to leave them alone.'

"But with a strange sense of fate gripping him, Ahmed Ibn Fahdlan said farewell to the caravan and camped nearby, alone. He was intensely curious, and already admired these men very much."

"Not what I heard," said MacLeod.

"I haven't got there yet," Methos retorted.

"The Rus lit fires and began singing and drinking. Ahmed screwed up his courage and approached their camp. No one stopped him, though he looked very different than the long haired, bare headed Rus in their leather and furs. He wore his black robes and a black headdress. Ahmed was good with languages, and he hoped that the Rus might speak a language similar to something he knew.

"They didn't. Their language lilted and rasped, and he didn't recognize a single word. A few of them tried to speak to him, in a suspicious, drunken way, but no one truly challenged him. He was even offered a drink, which he refused, being a good follower of the Prophet.

"Before too long, three friends grouped around him, drinking and asking him questions. One of them fingered the cloth of his robe and made a rude joke. Everyone laughed. Ahmed tried out a few languages on them, and one man brightened. His name was Herger, and he spoke Greek.

"'Now we're getting somewhere,' thought Ibn Fahdlan. 'I should present myself to their chieftain. It's only proper.'

"'May I speak to your …" he hesitated, then decided that vainglorious warriors would give themselves important titles, "king?'

"Herger grinned, and translated the question for his companions. All three men laughed.

"'Certainly,' said Herger, his eyes twinkling with mirth. 'We put him in that tent.'

"Ahmed looked at the small tent the man indicated. He looked back at the men who watched him merrily.

"Ahmed didn't much like being laughed at. He gathered his dignity and turned toward the tent.

'Let us know if he talks to you,' Herger said, chuckling. He said something in the Rus's language and all three men laughed heartily again.

"Ahmed turned to look back, and met the Rus's gaze steadily. Herger burst out laughing again.

"'He's dead! His spirit is bound for Valhalla!' He spoke the last word with gusto, and the others echoed him.

"'Valhalla!' they cried, raising their drinks in the air.

"'Valhalla!' answered the whole host.

"Herger's laughing companions moved off into the crowd, telling the joke to others, Ahmed was sure, by the way their listeners looked at him and laughed.

"Ahmed was a little shocked. 'This is a funeral?' he asked Herger, who still smirked at him, but had not left him.

'Tomorrow you can talk to the king,' Herger said. He pointed through the crowd at a blond well-built man with deep set, narrow eyes, and a broad forehead, who appeared to be enjoying himself as much as the others. 'One of his sons will be king after we have sent Hygiliak's body to Valhalla, tonight.'

"Abruptly the singing stopped as loud arguing broke out between two men. The others hushed and turned. Herger looked as well, as the blond man he had pointed to abruptly drew a huge sword and gutted the other man. The corpse fell back among the revelers.

"A silence followed, then the music began. The gathering relaxed and began again to drink. Two women dragged the corpse outside.

"Herger turned back to Ahmed. 'Buliwyf will be king,' he commented, and took a deep drink from the animal horn which held his liquor.

"Much later in the night, after the wheel of the stars had rotated overhead, and the cold air had turned damp with the promise of morning dew, Ahmed Ibn Fahdlan witnessed the proper funeral rite of the Rus for their kings. 'It is the old way,' Herger told him. 'You will not see this again.'

"The body, wrapped in cloth, was carried to a small ship. People brought offerings of gifts and placed them on the ship. A woman, dressed in white, who looked drugged, to Ahmed's eyes, was lifted up in the air by the crowd and lowered again, repeatedly. With each elevation she called out a line of ancient verses into the pre-dawn, and Herger translated.

'Behold, I see my father and mother.  
I see all my dead relatives seated.  
I see my master seated in Valhalla and Valhalla is beautiful and green.  
With him are men and boy servants.  
He calls me. Take me to him.'

"'She will travel with him,' Herger said.

"Ahmed looked at the ship. 'To Valhalla?' he asked, puzzled. He had thought Valhalla to be an afterlife.

"Herger nodded.

"Then, to Ahmed's horror, the gathering placed the woman beside the dead king, and set the ship ablaze.

"'That's … you can't …'"

Herger's previously cheerful countenance turned dark. "Show some respect, Arab."

"'Show respect … me?' Ahmed almost sputtered, he was so angry. He searched for the Greek words and found them.

"'Human sacrifice,' he spat, and walked away, into the darkness.

"He slept uneasily in his own tent and after a few hours he emerged into a morning only half over. Daylight made the night's events seem dreamlike and Ahmed found he was still interested in learning about the Rus, though he was having second thoughts about asking to travel with them. He decided he would seek out some breakfast with them and then try to catch his caravan up.

"To his surprise, he saw a second ship beached beside the first. This Rus's ship, like the first, had a high proud bow, only this one was carved in the shape of a ram's head.

"Ahmed entered the Rus's tent cautiously, and realized at once that the festive atmosphere of the night's funeral was gone. The Rus, their women, and their slaves sat or stood attentively, facing away from Ahmed's entrance. At the far side of the tent, Ahmed saw Buliwyf, seated on a raised chair, leaning forward to hear the words of a blond young man – a boy, almost – who spoke at length.

"A few people glanced at him as he shouldered his way to Herger's side, but, like the night before, no one challenged or halted him.

"Herger's smile of greeting was warm, if a little haggard-looking, and Ahmed guessed that few of the Rus had slept yet. He was relieved that Herger didn't seem hostile, considering how they had parted.

"'What's going on?' he asked.

"'The son of Hrothgar has come to ask Buliwyf for help. His father's kingdom is under attack,' Herger said.

"'Near here?'

"'Back in our lands.' Herger shook his head and Ahmed subsided, to let Herger hear more.

"Herger's eyes widened at something the boy said, and all around them was a nervous rustling. Ahmed studied the faces of these large, strong men and saw fear there.

"'What is it?' he whispered.

"'His father's kingdom is threatened by ...' Ahmed would have taken Herger's hesitation as uncertainty with the language, but something in his expression told him that Herger didn't want to finish. ' ...an ancient evil,' he said with an uneasy glance at his nearest comrades.

"The other Rus paid him no mind; Ahmed was quite sure no one else spoke Greek, and they were all enthralled by the tale the boy was telling.

"When the boy finished, a sigh went through the gathering. Ahmed again saw that look of fear as men avoided each other's eyes, or met them a little too defiantly. He wondered what tale could so frighten such fearsome men.

"For a while there was silence. Then Buliwyf spoke.

"'He calls for the Angel of Death,' Herger translated.

"'For the what?!'

"'Be still.'

"An old crone hobbled through the crowd, which parted uneasily before her. She leaned heavily on the arm of an adolescent girl dressed in thick furs. The crone's hood covered her face, and long strings of gray hair draped down from inside the hood. She hunched over before Buliwyf and threw down an animal skin. Onto the skin she tossed some stones carved with symbols. Ahmed realized she must be an oracle.

"As oracles went, she had very little ceremony. Ahmed had seen pagan Seers spend hours in a trance interpreting signs. This woman spoke immediately in a high, shrill voice. The faces of the men hearing her showed the age-old distrust of warriors for the supernatural, mixed with a healthy dose of respect.

"'She says thirteen men must go to the aid of Hrothgar,' Herger said, his eyes sparkling. 'The number of the moons in a year.' He looked around the room with an eager anticipation. The mood of the crowd shifted to one of excitement.

"'Hver vilja vera the fyrstur maður?' she called out."

MacLeod glanced at Methos as the older immortal spoke the Rus's language, the words rolling sonorously from his throat.

Joe and Richie grinned at each other.

Methos went on.

"'Who will be the first man?' Herger translated.

"Buliwyf, the new king, placed his hand over his heart, and bowed his head as if he had received a high honor.

"'ÉG vilja vera the fyrstur maður,' he said solemnly.

"'Buliwyf, of course,' said Herger, grinning. Loud cheering filled the tent.

"'Hver vilja vera the annarr maður?' asked the old woman.

"A tall dark man, dressed in black furs, stood up.

"'ÉG vilja vera the annarr maður,' he proclaimed. More cheering followed and people congratulated him."

"Hey," Richie said. "I think I saw this movie."

"Hush, you," said Methos.

"'One after another, warriors stood and volunteered to go to Hrothgar's aid. The dark man who volunteered second was Edgtho. His brother Roneth stood next. Then came Ragnar and Helfdane, and Rethel, the archer, whose gray braids reached his waist. Ahmed watched with interest as the most powerful looking men in the company stood and swore to follow Buliwyf to rescue Hrothgar's kingdom. Ahmed saw none of the fear which the "ancient evil" had caused at first - not until the eleventh man, Skeld, a red-haired man with an interlocking pattern tattooed across his nose and cheekbones. As he stood to declare 'ÉG vilja vera the ellefti maður,' he looked pale and he did not smile, not even when his companions shook him in welcome congratulations.

"Herger, too, watched and cheered.

"'Are you going?' Ibn Fahdlan asked him.

"'Just waiting to see who my companions would be,' Herger told him, grinning, as he got to his feet and loudly claimed the twelfth place.

"The cheers for him were raucous, particularly from the other volunteers. But, where before, the old woman had called out for the next volunteer, now her shrill voice spoke other words. Silence gradually fell over the whole gathering, and the hair stood up on Ahmed Ibn Fahdlan's arms. He realized that all eyes had turned to him.

"Buliwyf spoke - to him, it seemed - and Ahmed recognized the word 'ahrahb.' He looked to Herger, who wore a bemused expression.

"'She says that the thirteenth man must be no Rus,' Herger said.

"With growing alarm, Ahmed asked 'What does that mean?'

"'Your luck runs high today, little brother. You must be our last man.'

"Appalled, Ahmed protested. 'I am a scholar,' he told Herger. 'I am not a warrior.'

"Herger shrugged, enjoying Ahmed's discomfort. 'Soon you will be,' he said.

"Ibn Fahdlan was alone, his caravan long gone. Though he tried to protest, Herger conveniently forgot how to speak Greek, and Ahmed saw that he had no hope of resisting if these men were determined to bring him with them. He chose the more dignified option and co-operated.

"Buliwyf preferred his own ship so he transferred those of his party who were staying behind to the ram-headed ship, and the thirteen warriors and their horses boarded the one with the snake head. Ahmed took his tent and bedroll, but his horse, a beautiful gray Arabian stallion, balked at boarding the ship."

"He had an Arabian," MacLeod said, admiration and nostalgia in his voice.

"Of course," Methos said.

"What was the horse's name?" MacLeod asked.

Methos gave him a curious look. "Why?"

"Just wondered."

Methos frowned for a moment, then his face cleared. "Arifah," he said.

MacLeod nodded.

"Across forests of demons and rivers of monsters they journeyed. They reached the land of the Bulghars, that Ahmed had believed was the end of the earth, and still they journeyed farther north. In Bulgharia, Ahmed considered jumping ship and completing his duty as ambassador, but the prospect of being hunted down and carried back to the ship over the shoulder of an immense warrior was too humiliating.

"As they traveled, Ahmed kept to himself. He did not speak their language and he would not imbibe their mead . . ." Here Methos took a deep draught of beer and the host lumbered to his feet good-naturedly to refill it. "but he spent his time listening to their speech. Occasionally Herger could be persuaded to translate or explain a thing or two, but Herger preferred the raucous company of his other companions. Ahmed Ibn Fahdlan had never felt so alone.

"It was funny, though, the day he spoke in their language for the first time. Rethel had told some story about a dark skinned whore who 'looked like that one's mother' and Ahmed spoke up. 'My mother,' he said, and everyone looked at him in shock, 'was a pure woman. And I at least know who my father was . . .' He should have stopped there, but I'm afraid that guy had only contempt for the Rus, by then. 'you, pig-eating son of a whore,' he finished."

Methos leaned back in his chair, grinning. There were some chuckles around the table. "How did that go over?" Joe asked.

"Between Rethel being insulted and the more paranoid in the group demanding to know how long he had understood their language, Ahmed very nearly got the stuffing kicked out of him. Only two men didn't jump on him: Buliwyf who often sat kind of brooding, listening to the stories, and Herger who laughed so hard he fell off his seat. It was Herger's laughing that defused the incipient mayhem - that and the fact that the new king didn't dive in with them."

"I swear I saw this movie," Richie said. "I can't remember the name of it."

"Mac told you, his journal survives. Let me finish the story," Methos said.

MacLeod shook his head. "Not this much of the journal survives. Do they end up in Denmark?"

"No, in Sweden. Why?"

"I thought it might be Beowulf. You mentioned Hrothgar, and I recognized the dead king's name, too."

Methos spread his hands, palms up, on the table. "May I finish my story or would you like to?"

"Go on, go on," said MacLeod.

"The Rus loved to sing and tell stories. Roneth was their best storyteller, but he could no longer sing. His throat had been damaged in a battle, so sometimes they would call on Ahmed to sing. Their hunger for music was so strong, they would even listen attentively when he sang in his own language, for he didn't know any of their songs.

"As they traveled, Ahmed kept a journal. Whenever he would write in it, the Rus would move away from him or avoid him. Except for Herger, and sometimes, Buliwyf. Ahmed began to have trouble keeping it dry. This had never been a difficulty in his land, but the rivers and the weather meant they all spent a lot of time drenched. Herger found him a sealskin and showed him how to wrap his journal against the wet.

"'What are they afraid of?' Ahmed asked Herger.

"'Sorcery,' said Herger. 'Our writing is magical.' He used the Greek word for writing, as if even saying the word in the Rus language had power. Which might be the case, Ahmed reflected. He had nothing but contempt for these men's superstitions. A good Muslim had only Allah to fear, and belief in magic charms was prohibited. 'Buliwyf is interested in your writing,' Herger said. 'Think what you will say to him when he asks you. And, a word of warning - he's smart. Don't try to bullshit him.'"

"He didn't say that," Richie said.

Methos shrugged with a grin. "Something like that."

"Buliwyf stopped Ahmed one evening in the forest where Ahmed had been gathering firewood. Startled to see him there, Ahmed almost dropped his armful of wood.

"'You can draw sounds,' Buliwyf said. Buliwyf rarely spoke directly to Ahmed. Ahmed had to consider for a moment what the man meant. Even Buliwyf avoided using the word for writing, he realized, which was just as well, since Herger hadn't taught it to him.

"'Yes, I can,' Ahmed said. He set his armful of wood down. Herger had warned him that this would be an important conversation, so it seemed disrespectful to clutch at the wood during it.

"'And you can speak them back again,' Buliwyf said, his brooding countenance unreadable.

"'Yes.'

"'Show me.'

"So Ahmed found a stick and drew in the sand. Buliwyf watched him, aloof and superior, but with one hand he held the pendant he wore around his neck.

"'There is no god but Allah,' Ahmed read to him, 'and Mohammed is His prophet.'

"Buliwyf studied the letters carefully, then rubbed them out with his foot. 'Your words mean nothing,' he said, and left.

"Ahmed shrugged and gathered the wood again. It was almost dark, and he had no desire to be caught in the inky northern forests by himself away from the light and laughter of his companions.

"A week or so later, Buliwyf stopped him on a beachy river bank. 'Ahrab, say what I draw,' he said. With the tip of his dagger he carved the curved letters Ahmed had shown him. He did this in full view of the others, some of whom made furtive warding off spells with their hands when they saw what he did.

"Buliwyf seemed in a cheerful, almost playful mood, but something glinted in his deep set eyes as he regarded Ahmed, and Ahmed remembered Herger's warning. He looked at the letters. From one example, Buliwyf had recreated the letters almost perfectly. Almost. He wondered if he dared insult this giant of a man by correcting him.

"'There is no god but . . .' Ahmed couldn't bear it. The imperfect letters were in the name of God. He reached down with his finger and corrected the name. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Skeld, the superstitious, beat a retreat to the boat, trying to look unconcerned. Herger approached, but stayed back, watching. '. . .Allah, and Mohammed is his prophet.' The words in the Rus language sounded harsh, and Ahmed bowed his head under a wave of homesickness.

"When he could look up at Buliwyf, he saw the man look satisfied with something. He smiled and walked away. Herger came up and regarded the letters. He, at least, did not look afraid of the writing. 'Why does he ask me this?' Ahmed asked him.

"Herger shrugged, smiling. 'Perhaps he has found a use for you, little brother. The songs of a man's heroic deeds live after he has departed, but writing could live forever, or so he thinks.' This time Herger used the word which meant writing in the Rus language.

"Eventually, they reached the sea. Ahmed had been at sea before, but this sea he had only heard stories about."

"The Atlantic," Joe said.

"Uh huh. The Baltic, anyway. What really unnerved Ibn Fahdlan was that the Rus were willing to sail out of sight of shore, sometimes for days. He wasn't used to that. And he got seasick, too."

"Can you really get to Sweden from the steppes on rivers?" Joe asked.

Methos nodded. "If you know the way.

"They approached Hrothgar's land from the sea. It was very misty, so Ahmed couldn't see much, but he knew the danger of sailing shallows in poor visibility. The men with him grew quiet, and some of them began to work their magic charms in knotted ropes. Ahmed had almost forgotten how spooked their company had been, back on that first day when they heard about the "ancient evil" that threatened Hrothgar. Nowhere on the journey had he heard them discuss the journey's end.

"Edgtho, Buliwyf's lieutenant of sorts, hailed the land, calling into the mist. Rethel shot flaming arrows into the mist and some of them hit land and burned as a beacon so they didn't steer too near the rocky shore.

"Finally a voice called back, answering Edgtho. It sounded eerie and disembodied, but the Rus on the ship set about preparing to beach the ship. The voice in the mist gave them instructions and led them to a safe harbor. With the ship safely moored, the owner of the voice appeared. An old man on an old horse, carrying a standard. He was unarmed and addressed them imperiously. 'What is your name and purpose?' he demanded.

"Skeld and Edgtho reached reflexively for their weapons, muttering. But Buliwyf answered calmly. 'I am Buliwyf, son of Hygiliak. We send greetings to your noble lord. We come in the name of Wulfgar, his son.' At this, the herald turned his horse to show them his back and rode away.

"The twelve warriors and Ahmed gathered their things and led their horses off the ship. They had been at sea for three days, and the horses were ill. The Rus rode their unhappy mounts away from the shore anyway, but Ahmed led Arifah on foot. 'Why do you not ride, Arab?' asked Roneth. Ahmed gave him no answer. Most of the other Rus ignored him, but their sick mounts could go no faster than Ahmed could walk, so he kept up without difficulty. Most of the Rus, he observed, watched the woods warily and there was little talking.

"Ahmed, ever curious, asked Herger, 'Who is Wulfgar?'

"Herger responded irritably, 'Are you never silent? Tell me why you walk by your horse like a slave and I will answer your question.'

"Ahmed shrugged, 'The Prophet, peace be upon him, requires his followers to be not cruel to animals. My horse is ill, as yours is. Who is Wulfgar?'

"'Wulfgar was the son of Hrothgar who came to ask Buliwyf's help. You saw him.'

"Indeed, Ahmed remembered the scene well, but it had happened before he understood the Rus language. 'Why did he not return with us?' he asked.

"'He is a hostage,' Herger replied. 'When Buliwyf sends word that our mission here is no trap, the boy will be freed. Now ask me no more questions.'

"Ahmed reflected that the Rus, for all their talk of heroes and filial loyalty, must have some . . . trust issues.

"Herger moved ahead, where the warriors were discussing something in low tones. They were observing the condition of the fences and buildings that now came into view. The mist had lifted as they left the seashore, and Ahmed could see some fields, stock yards and wooden hovels with turf for roofs.

"The people in the fields looked bedraggled and poor, to Ahmed's eyes, but even peasants where he was from had cloth to wear. These people wore skins and wool.

"'Old men,' Edgtho muttered to Buliwyf, 'and women.'

"'Children,' Buliwyf added, regarding the somber faces and frightened eyes of the children who stopped working to watch the warriors pass. All the Rus warriors took in the shambled fences and unguarded peasants with unease.

"'Where are the men?' asked Ahmed.

"His question heightened the tension among the others. No one answered, so Ahmed looked at Herger. Herger rolled his eyes at him.

"They found the old man, the herald who had challenged them in the fjord, waiting at the bottom of the steps to Hrothgar's hall. This building dominated the side of a steep hill, almost a crag, and the fields and flocked they had passed were spread at its stone feet. The Hall, though worn and in need of some cosmetic repairs, was grand, and to Ahmed, who had seen no imposing structures built by the hand of man in many months, it looked quite magnificent. But Buliwyf and the others scowled at the grounds, and Ahmed realized they were unhappy with the timber fence, the Hall's only fortification, that stood broken and rotten around the building.

"The herald led them into Hrothgar's hall, a large stone vault with a fire pit running lengthwise down the middle. Long wood tables flanked this pit, and at the end of the room, on a raised dais, sat the king on a stone throne. Hrothgar was an old gray man, long past the heroic deeds of his youth. He sat, bent over even on his throne, a dusty cloak of fur weighing down his shoulders. On his head he wore a gold circlet. Beside him, hovering protectively, stood his daughter Weilow, as straight as he was bent. Her dark hair above her white woolen dress made her look like the thin stake of a burnt ash tree, after the forest fire had passed.

"'Buliwyf, son of Hygiliak,' the herald announced, his gray moustache vibrating with importance.

"'I know the man,' said Hrothgar, before the herald could continue. 'Knew him as a boy. Now he is grown to a man, a great hero.'

"Now as Ahmed's eyes adjusted to the gloom in the cavernous hall, he saw other figures to the sides of the dais and arrayed along the outside walls. The men in the shadows behind Hrothgar, stirred and murmured at the king's announcement. One of them, a blond man with a slighter build than many of the Rus and a weak chin, made a derisive snort as he whispered to a companion.

"Buliwyf clapped his sword hand over his heart and knelt, though his manner managed to be anything but servile. 'My sword is in your service, great king. Our fathers were fast friends.'

"'A feast then,' declared Hrothgar. 'In honor of Hygiliak and his son, Buliwyf.'

"With that, the people around them approached, offering the warriors drink and soft furs while others bustled to lay the long tables with a feast. Ahmed accepted the furs, but declined the drink. It was mead, of course.

"Buliwyf and his companions were seated in places of honor at the head of the two tables, and were well feasted. Ahmed excused himself before the host settled in for the meal. He had done his best to observe the times of prayer dictated by his faith, and if he was now to be in Hrothgar's land, he needed to find a private place where he would not become the butt of any more jokes. Assuming he needed to relieve himself, some of Hrothgar's people directed him to the back of the Hall.

"Behind the Hall of Hrothgar, Ahmed found kitchens and waterworks. The water used by the cooks, he was disappointed to see, came from a natural reservoir farther upslope. It was easily accessible from the surrounding forest by wildlife. The water there would not be considered pure for purposes of performing his ablutions."

"Ablutions?" asked Richie.

"It's a ritual washing Muslims perform before praying," MacLeod told him, only barely taking his gaze from the storyteller.

But Richie wasn't ready for the continuation of the story just yet. "Why wasn’t the water pure?"

Methos put down the beer glass he'd taken a drink from. "If animals can use a stagnant water source, it's not considered pure enough for ablutions. You know, if they can piss in it." Methos grinned.

"But," Richie was still mulling this information over, "what about on the ship? They didn't let him wash with the drinking water, did they?"

"He used sea water. It's automatically pure. So, anyway, Ahmed . . ."

"But," interrupted Richie. Everyone looked at him expectantly and with a touch of irritation. "Don't the fish piss in it? The sea water?"

The other men laughed at his expression of embarrassed confusion. Richie blushed deeply.

"We need more beer," said the chuckling host, who went to fetch more bottles.

"I don't know, Rich," said Methos, his eyes twinkling. "It's just a rule. Sea water is okay, otherwise you need running water or water the animals can't get at. Ahmed had to climb up into the crags above the reservoir. He filled his flasks, performed his ablutions, and said his prayers. The point is, while he was up there, he looked around.

"He saw the ocean in the fjord, the coast beyond the fjord, and stretching behind Hrothgar's shining hall, to the east, the uplands and the forests beyond the tundra. To the west the rocky crags he clambered in became sheer cliffs with tiny round birds swooping in and out of their nests. Although the hour was very late, the sun still shone. It seemed to Ahmed that the sun moved around the sky, but remained always about the same height above the horizon. This he had only noticed since they left the dense forests for the northern sea. He found it very remarkable.

"As he descended back down to the hall, he met Edgtho and Herger coming out of the cooking stockyards. This surprised him. All of his companions loved merrymaking. He didn't expect any of them to miss a minute of it. These two looked serious, and Edgtho carried a sheathed sword in one hand in addition to his own on his back.

"'You were on the crag?' Edgtho asked.

"At his assent, Herger asked, 'Will there be mist?'

"'Mist?' Ahmed repeated, puzzled.

"'Did you see any mist?' Herger urged. 'It would start about now if the night will be foggy.'

"'No,' Ahmed said. 'The evening looks fair.'

"The other two relaxed slightly, and Herger smiled. Edgtho, held out the sword in his hand to Ahmed. 'You'll need this,' he said. Then he brushed by Ahmed, heading up the crag to look for himself.

"Ahmed struggled to draw the sword. To him it was enormous. It stood as high as his shoulder from point to pommel. It was broad and flat, with edge on both sides and a faint pattern welding design - an excellent Rus broadsword."

"What did the hilt look like?" MacLeod asked.

Methos smiled a knowing smile. "Oh, I don't know, MacLeod, let's say it looked just like the one in the picture."

"Did it?"

"For the sake of the story, we'll say it did."

MacLeod leaned back in his chair with a resigned expression. Joe and Richie watched the exchange with interest.

  
"Ahmed looked at Herger in dismay. 'I cannot lift this!' he exclaimed.

"Herger, his normal good spirits revived by the news that there would be no mist, clapped him on the shoulder and said, 'Grow stronger! Come, let us tell Buliwyf the night will be clear.'

"'Why?' Ahmed demanded, hauling the sword so he could keep up with Herger. 'Why do you fear the mist?'

"'Fear? We do not fear the mist, little brother. Choose your words more carefully. There are those here who question our bravery as it is. The Bear People only attack under cover of the mist. We need at least another day to rebuild the defenses here.'

"'Who are the Bear People?' Ahmed was excited to finally get some real information.

'Half man, half bear, they say,' Herger answered diffidently. 'They have always dwelt on the land. Sometimes near here, sometimes they plague others. They have been stealing Hrothgar's people away in raids in the night.'

"'What do they do with them?'

"'They eat them, little brother. Men are their favorite food.'

"'You cannot be serious!'

Herger said nothing, skirting a pig-pen.

"'Then this is the evil that you warriors feared? The evil that had returned?'

"'No,' said Herger, 'the Bear People are known throughout these lands. They can be fought.'

"The two of them approached the small rear entrance to Hrothgar's Hall. 'Then what was it? What could be worse than eaters of flesh?' Ahmed asked.

"'The curse,' said Herger, and left Ahmed standing just inside the Hall as he went to seek out Buliwyf.

TO BE CONTINUED


	5. The Host's Tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The diner's proprietor has a surprising story to tell about immortals.

“Hey,” Richie said, “the snow’s letting up. Look.” Beyond the large window, the swirls of white retreated. Their car came into sharp focus and other buildings on the street emerged as silhouettes brightening with each moment. Joe began the process of standing and Methos threw back the last of his beer. Duncan rose and turned to their host, preparing to pay the tab.

The man got to his feet and moved behind the counter, Duncan following him and standing before the cash register. But rather than meet him there, the man removed his apron, opened a cabinet, and took out a thin book. “Don’t I get to tell a story?” he asked, turning to Duncan.

“I’m sorry, but we need to go.” Duncan smiled.

The man shook his head, regretfully. Richie was at the door, only his reluctance to abandon the warmth of the diner kept him from being already through it. Joe joined him there as Methos stood at the table.

The man set his small book down and tapped it. “I can guarantee you haven’t heard this story before.”

Duncan gestured with his cash. “Some other time,” he said. Methos drifted up behind him, his gaze on the art deco wallpaper design of the book’s cover. The man took Duncan’s money and gave him change. “It’s about immortals,” he said.

He acted blithely unaware that he had captured the attention of every man in the room. “How they were created, what God intends for them.” He closed the cash drawer of the register.

Duncan glanced at Methos, who scowled at the man. Joe made his way toward them, Richie hovering behind. “But, like you said, you need to go.” The man took the book and put it beneath the counter.

“What do you mean, ‘immortals’?” Richie asked.

“Oh, so you do want to hear my story?” The man took out an empty beer pitcher and began to fill it at the tap. Behind his back, the others exchanged looks; startled, wary, curious, impatient. “Stay,” he said, turning back and banging the filled pitcher on the counter. “The beer’s on the house.”

The room was still for two beats. One, two. “Good enough for me,” Methos said, carrying the pitcher back to their table. “Adam,” Duncan protested, “it’s getting late.”

“I want to hear his story, Mac,” Joe said. “Yeah, me too,” said Richie.

“It’s your trip to the auction house,” Duncan said to Methos with a shrug, joining the others back at their table. Their host filled glasses for them as they sat — except that Duncan refused the drink on the premise that he should be driving soon — then returned to the counter, produced the book and began to read.

The Host's Tale

When, in the beginning, God created earth and heaven, He created man and woman from the stuff of the firmament. He blew into their nostrils the breath of life, and they became living beings. He placed them in Gan Eden to till it and to tend it and commanded them, saying, “Of every tree in the garden you are free to eat; but of the two trees in the center of the garden you may not eat, for on the day you eat from them, you shall surely be cut off in ignorance.”

The travelers glanced around the table at each other – even Richie looked puzzled. Methos slouched back, drained his glass and refilled it. The host continued.

And the Lord God brought before them all the beasts of the earth and all the birds of the sky and taught them their names. He taught them the names of the trees and the plants that the first man had given them. The man and the woman communed in the garden with every beast of the earth, but there was no serpent.

Now the man and the woman climb high in the trees, the man stretches out his hand and the woman is struck; she falls. Rakia fears the pain of loneliness.

“Who’s Rakia?” Richie whispered. The others shook their heads, gazes glued to the man with the book.

“You are losing breath,” he says. “I know a tree named Life.” He takes of the fruit of the tree which God had forbidden him and gives to the woman to eat. “We shall surely be cut off in ignorance,” she says to him. He eats and gives to her again. “Now I am alone with God.” She eats and is healed.

They felt the Lord God moving about in the garden at the breezy time of the day. The Lord God called out to Rakia and said to him, “I feel my breath in you. Did you eat of the tree from which I had forbidden you to eat?” The man said, “The woman knew pain and I feared to be alone. I took from the tree called Life and we ate.” And the Lord God said to the woman, “What is this you have done?” “You were not here,” she said. “I desired to live.”

To one the Lord God said, “Because you ate of the tree about which I commanded you, ’You shall not eat of it,’

You shall know neither father nor mother.  
You shall not know from whence you came.  
Destruction to your own kind  
Forever a stranger in strange lands  
Lonely.”

 

And to the other He said,

“Because you lusted for immortality,  
Though the life within you is eternal  
Your own days will come to a head.  
Your existence shall be struggle and enmity.  
You shall not be fruitful, but shall diminish upon the earth.  
In the end there shall be only one.”

 

And the Lord God said, “Now that this man also has become like one of us, living forever, what if he should stretch out his hand and take from the tree of knowledge, and eat and seek wisdom!” So the Lord God drove the man out, and stationed west of the Garden of Eden a second cherubim and fiery ever-turning sword, to guard the way to the tree of knowledge.

When mankind began to increase upon the earth and sons were born to them, the sons of Rakia saw how beautiful were the daughters of Adam and took wives from among those who pleased them. It was then, and later too, that the Nephilim appeared on the earth – when the sons of eternal life cohabited with the daughters of knowledge, who bore them offspring. They were the heroes of old, men of renown.

Richie had not touched his beer. “Wait,” he asked, “so there were two trees?” Joe nodded and Duncan said, “That’s right,” still watching the man with the book.

“That part’s right, anyway,” said Methos, still frowning, like a musician hearing his student play a piece badly. The host continued:

The Lord saw how great was this wickedness, that soil and firmament mingled; how knowing neither good nor evil, the sons of Rakia devised nothing but evil all the time. And the Lord regretted that He had loosed mankind on earth, and His heart was saddened. The Lord said, “I shall destroy the firmament that I created – the Most High above and the sons of Rakia below – and the waters will blot out from the earth the men whom I created – mankind together with beasts, creeping things, and birds of the sky; for I regret that I made them. As for the sons of firmament,

They neither know nor understand  
They go about in darkness  
All the foundations of the earth totter  
I had taken you for divine beings  
Sons of the Most High, all of you  
But you shall die as men do  
Fall like any prince

 

But the Nephilim found favor with the Lord. They knew good from evil and performed mighty deeds. They were of large stature and became powerful hunters, admired leaders.

And when God destroyed the firmament, both the Most High and the sons of Rakia, all the fountains of the great deep burst apart. The floodgates of the sky broke open.

When the waters swelled upon the earth, all the highest mountains everywhere under the sky were covered. And all flesh that stirred on earth perished—birds, cattle, beasts, and all the things that swarmed upon the earth, and all mankind. All in whose nostrils was the merest breath of life, all that was on dry land, died. All existence on earth was blotted out—mankind, cattle, creeping things, and birds of the sky; they were blotted out from the earth. But the Nephilim were covered and did not die, for the eternal breath of life was in them.

At the end of one hundred and fifty days the waters diminished. The waters went on diminishing until the tenth month; in the tenth month, on the first of the month, the tops of the mountains appeared. And in the second month, on the twenty-seventh day of the month, the earth was dry.

God said to the Nephilim, “Though you have been granted life, you shall not be fertile and increase, you shall not abound on the earth and increase on it. In hiding shall you destroy your kind, and in ignorance will you come into being, for your parentage was forbidden. The quickening breath of life that is within you shall not diminish as your numbers diminish, rather it will gather into an ever greater whirlwind until the final holy storm abides in only one."

And God’s bow appeared in the clouds, a promise of his covenant, a sign that He was done with cursing His creation. Thus it is that the immortal giants of old are no longer seen beneath the sun.

The host closed the book and looked up at the others. “What was that?” Duncan demanded, drawn to his feet.

“It’s from a little known story called the Book of Enoch,” said the man.

Methos, too, was on his feet, beside Duncan, the two of them closing upon the man at the counter. “No, it’s not,” he said. “I know the Book of Enoch.”

“Well, there is more than one version,” said the man, calmly.

“Isn’t there any more to the story?” asked Richie, sounding plaintive.

“There are three versions,” said Methos. “There is a Greek version, a Qumran version, and the one James Bruce brought from Abyssinia.”

“Ethiopia,” Duncan said.

“Ethiopia,” Methos agreed. “I know all three, and nothing like that is in there.”

“Then, obviously, there must be another version. Here, keep it.” As Methos reached to accept the book, Joe, who had arrived at the counter, snatched the man’s wrist and turned it over. It was unblemished. The man released the book but yanked his hand free.

Methos turned the book over. The front and back were unmarked, with a repeating abstract pattern all over it. Duncan bent his head, too, over the book in Methos’s hands. “It sounded like Genesis,” Duncan said.

“You’d better go now,” the man said, casting an annoyed look at Joe and locking the drawer on the cash register, “if you want to get to New Canterbury before dark.” He turned and headed for a door to the back.

“Where did you get this?” Duncan called after him, but the man went through the door without replying.

The travelers looked at each other. “You want me to go get him out here?” Richie asked. “No,” Duncan replied after a moment. “We’ve got the book. Let’s go.” He led the way out to the car. Richie held the door for Joe.

Methos climbed in the shotgun seat, gripping the book. Duncan steered the SUV down the main street toward the highway. Beside him, Methos swore. “What?” chorused the others.

“It’s blank,” he said, holding up the empty book. “It’s just one of those blank journals.”

“Guys,” Richie said, leaning forward, “we never told him where we were going, but he knew. Did you catch that? This is so creepy.”

Behind them, the neon “Open” sign on the diner flickered into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endnotes:  
> Genesis text adapted from the new JPS translation.
> 
> “Stranger in a Strange Land” is used in canon as a description of Moses, not of the Nephilim. But Moses could have called himself that in a reference to this alternate Genesis version in order to signal his true origin. After all, he was a foundling (what could have been a back-justification of his Hebrew birth notwithstanding), he was an outsider, he outlived at least two generations of his people, no one knows where he was buried, and somehow he wrote about events that occurred after his “death.” Of course, he did have a son, but Zipporah could have been unfaithful. I’m sure the whole blood bridegroom incident could be sorted out as something to do with the problem that it might be tricky to circumcise an immortal. Not that I’ve worked that out, yet. Maybe that’ll be another story.
> 
> Psalm 82, unaltered.
> 
> The Nephilim were giants, or “of large stature,” but that would eventually lead them to look ordinary-sized as humanity grew larger over time.
> 
> Lest I be accused of turning in a story based on extra-canonical books, let me say Methos was right. This really has nothing to do with the Book of Enoch.


End file.
